On the closed-circuit TV,

I watch them crack open

your sternum. The lead surgeon

looks at the blueprints,

then makes the first incision

in your heart. I don’t flinch.

It’s important I watch

what you’re going through.

 

Are you ready,

the surgical assistant asks me.

I take a deep breath

and nod.

 

When I wake up again,

I’ll get acclimated

to my new apartment.

Through the intercom,

I’ll tell you all about

what they did to you.

Once you’re recovered enough,

we’ll look at each other

in your bathroom mirror;

 

the view is strange,

but I asked to be here.